Week 11: Objects in motion

When Ryan and I began our travels, we decided to designate one day per week as “internet day,” a day were all we would do is write emails, blog, upload pictures, do laundry, etc. Clearly this hasn’t worked, as I am once again back to posting my blogs late. I don’t feel too bad about this, it means I have that many more stories to share with you all! So let’s get to it.

Also: because my days are for the most part jam-packed with memorable misadventure, the blogs from here on out are probably going to be longer than the earlier ones. So go grab a cup of tea and some biscuits, you could be here a while.

At the end of the last entry, Ryan, Leo, and I were on our way to Christchurch (the locals call it Chch for short). As we were pulling into Chch (it was about 7:00 in the evening), I quickly realized three things: first, that Ryan and I had no idea where we were going to stay that night; second, that most of the motels and hostels had “No Vacancy” signs out in front of them because the big earthquake in February had shut down the entire downtown area of the city, forcing the residents of the apartments and hostels in the “Red Zone” into other accommodation; and third, that my shaving cream had exploded in my day pack, covering the contents therein, including my laptop. And so our misadventure in Chch began.

The first order of business was to find a place to sleep that wasn’t the nearest park bench, so the shaving cream would have to wait. I pulled my shaving cream covered guidebook out of my pack, and after getting our bearings, we started to walk. The bus had dropped us on Bealey Ave, which had quite a few hostels on it. Sadly, all of them were full. However, one of the booked hostels gave us a lead for a place to stay that was only a 20 minute walk away: Chester Street Backpackers, at the corner of East Chester Street and Barbados Ave. They called ahead and booked us two beds. Score.

I will never forget walking through Chch that night, and how eerie it was. The Red Zone encompassed all of the tall buildings in the downtown area; in short, everything that makes a city a city was shut down and quarantined off. Chch doesn’t have that many really tall buildings, but the ones that we could see from a distance were completely dark. Looking down the street into the Red Zone was like looking onto the set of 28 Days Later: abandoned cars, rubble, debris littering the streets, and almost completely bereft of human activity. All surrounded by a fence, and with only a handful of guarded checkpoints in or out; one of the big concerns that everyone who occupies property in the Red Zone has is with looters running the blockade and stealing from their shops or their hotel rooms.

We arrived at the hostel at about 7:30. After walking close to three kilometers with our packs, we were both quite tired. All we wanted to do was to check into our rooms, drop our packs, eat some dinner, and pass out. Sadly, we had to wait, the manager, Kate, was busy checking in another person.

Apparently this other person was objecting to the bed she was given: she wanted to stay long term in the hostel, but the only bed available in the long term room was a top bunk, and she couldn’t climb this ladder. She was complaining all the time about how she had dislocated both of her knees, had a bad back, a chest infection, and every ailment under the sun short of poor gas mileage, as (in spite of her bad knees) she rode her bicycle here. She complained and argued with Kate for what seemed like ages while Ryan and I waited patiently in the living room. It was clear from the bits of conversation that we heard that this lady clearly was not a backpacker. At long last, they came to some sort of arrangement, and Kate checked us in. My only thought at this point, besides “What I would do for some milk and homemade biscotti right now…” was “With the luck I’m having tonight, this piece of work is going to end up in my room.”

Yep.

And so, at about 8:30 in the evening, I met Helmet. Her actual name is Jennefer, but I gave her that nickname because despite the fact that she had been off her bicycle and inside for a good thirty minutes, she was still wearing her bicycle helmet. Reflecting on her laundry list of ailments and bad joints, my first thought was, “No wonder you need a helmet.”

I know, it’s not a very flattering nickname, but it stuck for the reason that she was (and still is) the single most unpleasant person I have met in New Zealand thus far. I think what rubbed me the wrong way initially about her was the fact that she seemed to have thought she had checked into her own room at a motel, rather than sharing a room with two other people in a backpacker’s hostel, a place where pristine facilities are an uncommon luxury (mind you, Chester Street Backpackers is immaculate by even motel standards), and there is little expectation or room for much personal space or privacy. If she were a backpacker, she would have known what she was getting into when she checked in. Instead, while we were there, we felt as if we were intruding in her house, and she was treating us with a sort of passive aggressive neglect. She also was on the phone constantly with various people, as apparently her landlord was trying to screw her over, and thus far had done a pretty good job (everyone in the hostel was privy to the details of her woes, she talks very loudly). While I don’t condone the landlord’s actions at all, I can understand completely how Helmet could be the tenant from hell, and why he’d be tempted to try to forcibly evict her.

“To cut a long story short: she’s loud, obtrusive, and rude, and because she kept pissing off the managers and the other backpackers, as well as stealing $60 from the till, she is getting kicked out today… She also snores like you wouldn’t believe, and she does it WHILE SHE IS AWAKE (5-13-11).”

We only spent two nights in Chch. Honestly, at this point two days is all you need to see the city: most of the historical buildings and tourist attractions are all in the Red Zone, and are sadly in some state of disrepair. I heard that part of the steeple actually fell off of the Christchurch cathedral, which is sad. Ryan and I spent our one full day in Chch walking around the Red Zone surveying the damage. We were also looking for a place to buy small screw drivers, as I still needed to open up my laptop and clean the shaving cream out of it. I couldn’t get it all out, but thank god shaving cream doesn’t conduct electricity; the laptop still works great, but I did lose the functionality of my favorite “Ctrl” key.

My fondest memories of Chch were times when Ryan and I were just hanging out in the hostel, shooting the breeze with the managers and the other backpackers. Of course, all of our interactions were significantly colored by Helmet’s comings and goings, but for the most part we ignored her. The last night at the hostel Ryan and I (mostly Ryan) cooked for dinner a meal that I recommend all backpackers learn to make a version off. We affectionately named it “Free-Shelf Casserole,” and it is made, as the name implies, from foodstuffs put up for grabs by backpackers who didn’t want to take the food with them. The final product was definitely edible, though the taste was significantly improved with the addition of hot sauce; no, I’m not going to tell you what was in it. After dinner, we all sat around, drank tea, told stories, and had a good ol’ fashioned media swap, one of my favorite college traditions: I traded all of the Cowboy Bebop episodes and Fight Club for the complete Invader Zim series, Inglorious Bastards, and Kate’s zucchini bread recipe. Kate also claimed she had an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie recipe that could beat mine. As much as I would love to show her why my oatmeal chocolate chip cookies have no equal, I will not be returning to Chch; I changed my ticket so I now fly out of Auckland, because it would allow me to see more of the north island.

The next morning Ryan and I hopped the bus to Queenstown, the adrenaline-junkie capital of New Zealand, and perhaps the world. Getting out of Chch was a bit interesting: Ryan and I had a late start from the hostel due to the fact that thanks to Helmet, nobody slept that well (she barged into the room at 3:30AM, flipped on the lights, and started cursing like a sailor; I wish I were kidding). We had to sprint to the bus carrying all of our gear, and arrived at the bus stop just as the driver was about to leave us behind. The drive to Queenstown was uneventful, but the scenery was beautiful (as per usual). Ryan had the clairvoyance to put all of the Lord of the Rings movie soundtracks on his ipod before leaving the states, so I’m pretty sure orcs, wizards, and hobbits were dancing across the hills for him as we were driving along.

We arrived in Queenstown later that evening. My first impression of Queenstown was that it was nothing special, though there seemed to be an abundance of people my age, bars, shops, and cool places to hang out; in short Queenstown felt a lot like a college town. After a few hours walking around, a few conversations, and a Fergburger, I had a new opinion: this was a resort town with a little something for everyone, but more to offer the young, healthy, slightly reckless, and affluent. After a relatively inexpensive night on the town, a good night sleep afterwards, and one look at the surrounding scenery in the daylight, I came to my final conclusion: Queenstown is paradise for anyone under age 35 looking for adventure and has a bankroll to burn.

We spent five nights there. Every day we did something new and awesome: day one was skydiving, day two was “river surfing,” which essentially is going through class three rapids on a boogie board wearing a wetsuit, on day three we gave our nerves a break and went wine tasting, and on day four we took a breathtaking cruise around Milford Sound, and by pure happenstance got up close and personal to a couple bottlenose dolphins. Our nights were eventful as well: for every day but the first we had roommates, and each night was spent hanging out, laughing, drinking heavily, then hitting the bars and drinking some more, and then finally walking home around 3:00AM after grabbing a late night Fergburger. Of course this couldn’t be sustained indefinitely, and true to form, it was me that decided one night that I was going to come home early around midnight and get some extra sleep. This was a terrible idea: Ryan and our roommates all came back around 2:00AM drunk and loud, two of them having brought ladies with them. I remember this night quite clearly: after everyone had settled down and the lights went off, I was having a lot of trouble trying to get to sleep, owing to the fact that Ryan and two other roommies were snoring loudly, and the two that had brought ladies home were busy entertaining them. That was the only time in recent memory which I uttered the phrase “Fuck my life,” and was sort of serious. We all had a good laugh about it in the morning. Overall, I had a great time in Queenstown, and will definitely be back. But not for a while, my wallet and my liver are going to need some time to recover after the grievous abuse I put them through.

That Wednesday, we rented a car and started driving north. With the number of stops we wanted to make it was more cost effective than buying bus tickets. After one last Fergburger for breakfast, Ryan, Leo, and I bid Queenstown a fond farewell.

Our next stop: Franz Josef Glacier. To be continued….

-DK