Unceremoniously

I have a Webster's Dictionary app on my phone, read a book per week, and conversations around the table with my family at holidays inevitably turn to rants about grammar pet peeves topped by highly competitive games of Bananagrams. To me, the pleasure of utilizing a thesaurus is comparable to a delectable piece of chocolate cake. On that note, I'd never fully appreciated the meaning of the word "unceremoniously" until I was, without ceremony, tossed out of the hostel where I'd been living and working for five days.

I was in the town of Marahau near Abel Tasman National Park, a laid-back beach town with shallow, turquoise waters, plentiful sea birds, and gentle breezes. The Abel Tasman Coastal Track was just minutes away from the hostel and meandered in and out of the rainforest to steep outcroppings overlooking Sandy Bay. Colorful sea kayaks bobbed along, paralleling the shore, shadowy gray mountains in the distance contrasting darkly with the vibrant water.

Six days a week, a small pack of fellow Working Holiday Visa holders and I were required to work for three hours in various hostel-keeping tasks such as scrubbing toilets, changing sheets, emptying garbage cans, and counting down the minutes until one o'clock, when we'd be free to go to the beach or trek along the coastal track. In exchange, we stayed at the sprawling compound called, "the Barn" free of charge.

"The Barn" is by the far the most Versailles-like hostel I've experienced. (The workers being the desperate French peasants.) There were spacious private cabins, a movie room with squashy couches, and two massive open-air kitchens. Even their dorms were small boxy cabins with sliding glass doors, personal patios, and cushy beds, not at all reminiscent of the sagging, mysteriously damp mattresses and dreary rooms I'm accustomed to in the budget hostels I favor.

I had turned up at the hostel hastily, without a number called an IRD, which is apparently required by people on a Working Holiday Visa to ensure you are taxed appropriately. However, since I was not working for money but for accommodation and the untethered joy that comes with polluting my body with ammonia-dominant cleaning fluids, I assumed I did not need the aforementioned number. Furthermore, acquiring this number had proven to be a big, if I could speak plainly, pain in the ass. It required a lot of things I simply didn't have: a local bank account, a local address, or the patience to figure out the esoteric terms outlined on the Inland Revenue Department's website.

When I showed up at "The Barn," they said I'd need one of these sequences of digits. I tortuously opened the bank account online, but needed a day to go to the closest town to finish activating it. But like I described above, there's a beach. And warm, non-shark-infested waters. And a rainforest. So, as the Kiwis say, I couldn't be bothered.

A few days passed, and the work grew more and more tiresome. I furthermore began to realize I am not a beach person and sat in the shade fully clothed, avoiding the searing sun as my comrades splashed about in the salty waters playing frisbee. (It turns out that the notorious Hole in the Ozone Layer is located like a bullseye above New Zealand and after a couple hours in the sun, I start to feel as if I'm sitting too close to the burner on a stove.) The Coastal Track had even lost its charm.

After the third day in a row on toilet duty, I was sitting at the beach on the phone with my brother getting advice on whether it would be a morally shitty thing to do to just leave the place by the dark of night. In a word, he shrugged. Not five minutes after I hung up, feeling restless and watching the undoubtedly melanomic freckles blooming on my arms, I returned to the small staff house. There I was accosted by Carlo, the manager of the cleaning posse. He said Andrew, the owner, had gotten wind that I didn't yet have an IRD number and "wasn't happy."

"So, I'm sorry, but this is your last night here."

I tried to look disappointed, but I think my whooping and pumping my fist in the air betrayed my true feelings. I was free, in regards to both guilt and contract. It was, however, rather embarrassing to tell my co-workers that I had been sacked. They expressed their disappointment, as I had grown quite popular amongst the sheet-changing squad. I packed my bags and left early in the morning, nursing the hangover from celebrating my imminent departure a bit too heartily the night before.

I'm now in the town of Takaka, emphasis on the first syllable, which is known for being somewhat of a hippie haven. Indeed, I have never seen more dreadlocks and the main street reeks of patchouli. I am only so pleased to be here though. I can cook in the kitchen without the anxiety of having to scrub it in the morning. More importantly, I live within a ten-minutes walking distance to Paine's Ford, one of the best rock climbing locations in the country. I'm staying at a campground called, "the Hangdog," fondly called "the Gay Carabiner." (I haven't figured out why yet. It seems so far that the rates of homosexuality are no higher than a standard sample size.)

In conclusion, I think the winds have blown me in the right direction. In the spirit of Trail Talks, I will continue to adventure by the seat of my pants. Unless it involves an IRD number. Then count me out. 

First New Zealand Impressions

So far, my biggest obstacles in New Zealand haven't been bunjee-jumping, navigating glaciers, rafting Class V whitewater, or rock climbing on coastal cliffs, all of which I plan to do while I'm here. No, my biggest obstacles have been trying to survive without Evin on the other side of the world, airlines, and the madness that is driving on the left side of the road.

I arrived in the windy, coastal city of Wellington, New Zealand, wearing essentially my pajamas to make the 30 hours worth of travel at least somewhat more comfortable. (Side note: Kiwis claim Wellington to be the windiest city in the world, and the windiest part of the city is where the airport is. The landing was rougher than the dirt road in Nepal I once experienced as a runway.) My clothes consisted of baggy black sweatpants and a t-shirt that had "take me to the river" emblazoned on the front in rather aggressive font. I deboarded the plane at last and  followed the herd of travelers toward baggage claim, cheesing like a lunatic, my adventure finally under way. I was looking forward to fresh clothes and a hot shower before exploring Wellington. I was staying in the city for just two nights, enough to get the jet lag under control, before heading off into the countryside. I waited at the baggage carousel as one by one my comrades seized their bags and proceeded to customs. It got more and more quiet, more and more bleak. My smile wilted incrementally. At last, it was just me and a family with three young rambunctious daughters, glass-eyed and staring with dwindling hope at the still rotating carousel. I stood up straight and pushed back tears, trying to be grateful that at least I didn't have three tiny children missing their strollers and diapers. The kind Kiwi attendant informed me my bags were probably in Sydney and would be arriving in the next couple days. To cut to the point of this story, I'll tell you it took four days of asking the hostel employees if there were any bags behind the desk, four days of them saying no, getting more and more annoyed with me, until at last the fellow said, "You know what? We'll just let you know."

The good news is I often spend four days straight wearing the same clothes in my pursuits as a ski bum and river guide. In those cases, however, I can jump in a cold river to rinse off or in the wintertime don more thick layers to cover my stench. I spent the first three days at the hostel friendless, lurking about in the shadows with puffy red eyes. It was rather difficult at first to summon up the confidence to talk to strangers when my hair was stringy and plastered to my head with grease and my clothes hung wrinkled and limp off my body. Luckily, after a few of New Zealand's famous Scrumpy Ciders on day four, my missing baggage and haggard appearance was a funny icebreaker with some drunk English travelers at the hostel and I started to cry less about it.

Since my bags have been recovered and I look a little less homeless, I've acquired a tiny car. I'm terrified of it. It is a 1992 Ford Laser XL, resembling the car from Back to the Future but without the cool doors and time-traveling capabilities. Buying the White Whip, as I've chosen to call her, was one of my more impulsive decisions given these Kiwi freaks drive on the left side of the road and my little vehicle has a manual transmission. I'm forced to shift with my left hand and sit like a fool on the right side of the car. Additionally, the blinker switch is on the right, so I've been turning on the windshield wipers regardless of the weather instead of signaling to my fellow drivers which way I'm planning to turn.

While driving, I whisper to myself in alternating order, "Left, stay left. Ok here we go, so I'm turning right, so that means I go this way, oh god, look out pedestrians!" and "What the hell have I done, buying this thing?" My blood pressure is off the charts and I've chewed my nails down to the quick.

Furthermore, the simple act of walking around has proven a mission in defying death. When there is a situation like a split median, I find myself looking in the wrong direction, causing much blaring of horns and general mayhem on the streets of Wellington as I march happily off the curb right into oncoming traffic. Now, just to be extra cautious, I look left, right, left, up, down, right behind me on the sidewalk, and then repeat the whole process twice more, mumbling to myself and trembling slightly, before considering leaving the warm safety of the sidewalk.

It's good for me these Kiwis are friendly. Just this morning, I sat in my car at a stoplight through three cycles of green lights because I couldn't summon the courage to participate in an incredibly intimidating intersection with multiple lanes and seemingly no order whatsoever. The person behind me gave me a couple beeps on the horn, but seemed otherwise unbothered. On an excursion to get gas (which took me an hour and a half to navigate two kilometers), I did the inevitable and turned into the incorrect lane, gasped, and froze, bracing for impact. The couple cars in front of the oncoming fleet simply slowed down and one fellow even pointed me to where I should actually be driving.

After my gasoline excursion, I collapsed weakly onto the saggy couch at the hostel, my hands cramped in permanent claws from gripping the steering wheel so fiercely. I took deep breaths, but with dread I knew eventually I'd have to get in the White Whip again. I shook my fist and screamed, "Damn you, British imperialists!" startling hostel guests. Today or tomorrow, I'll finally leave Wellington and head north to Turangi.  While there, I'm hoping to go rafting with a friend on the handful of class IV and V rivers on which she guides.  I laugh that I used to be scared of hurtling down steep, raging water in a small inflatable and puncturable craft. It seems quaint compared to the nightmare that is me in the White Whip. 

Update: I found myself in quite the shituation

Evin here, I am just going to jump right into it (as I do). This may not be the update everyone wants, but it is the update everyone gets.

I haven't pooped in three days, since 8pm Halloween night to be exact. Anyone who knows me knows that is highly concerning. One day here and there without movement is acceptable, and by here and there I mean a once a year. So there I was, day two of no movement, my slight concern turned into panic. Again I decided to drink my weight in coffee to give the three pound burrito the little kick that it needed to devise an exit plan. Nothing. I tried to keep positive, surely I would wake up on day three with an urgency to run, (but not too fast or we all know what happens) from the Trailer into the house and finally be relieved. But it's the morning of day three and guess who was not waken up with a shaking fear that I may have to change my pants? That is correct, me. It's not everyday that you actually want to wake up like that. So I did what any sane person would do. I aggressively shoved fists of spinach into my mouth, drank an obscene amount of coffee, probably 5 times the recommended amount,  squatted in the kitchen like my life depended on it and stood on my head in hopes that the powers of gravity would bless me.

Despite my best efforts, no movement. I have almost accepted defeat. I gave myself a deadline of one more day, if I go one more day shitless then I am taking extreme measures. I am talking coffee with psyllium husk powder (a root when ground up and ingested is sure to make anyone slightly scared for their bowels) mixed in with a nice side dish of kale and spinach, and for dessert more spinach. Day 4 I am preparing myself for my fibrous day. I think of where to buy the husk powder as I sip my coffee by the pool, when suddenly I feel something, what could it be? A fart, the sweet sweet blessing of a fart. Not just one of those farts with an empty promise, but one with the promise of the coming event. Pooping. At last I have made some progress, the day is not over and neither is the battle with my bowels. I will accept nothing less than two more today.

Just for fun I have put together a list of all that caught illegal refuge in my body for the past three days:

• 3lb (at least) super burrito that took almost an entire day to eat
• Homemade cheese pizza with leftover pasta sauce 
• 2 pieces of avocado toast
• 2 Shrimp tacos with yum yum taco sauce 
• Mu Shu vegetable and 2 spring rolls
• Fig pastry
• Fuck ton of spinach
• Fish and chips 
• Fig pastry
• Questionable oysters
• Salad, grilled veggies and mac n cheese

Oh, this is why I haven't shit. I thought surely it was my body adjusting to a new space, or eating more meat than I have had in the past year or the separation from Monica. Most likely being the last reason. Upon making the list my unfortunate situation does indeed check out. So...this is how I am doing.