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.
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.
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