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.